


Heart of Frost

by tamber



Series: Frostfire [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-21 00:27:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamber/pseuds/tamber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All it took was a single phone call – a phone call starting with the words ‘I’m terribly sorry Mr Holmes but we need you to come and identify a body…’. As it turned out, it was the body of the once beautiful, vibrant and fun-loving woman who had been his mother.</p><p>Mycroft is 18 when he is faced with the responsibility of raising his 11 year old brother, Sherlock. This is how the boy became the Iceman and the sacrifices he made along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginnings

It was raining that day, Mycroft remembers. The day that his world – up until that point as straightforward and uncomplicated as it had any right to be, considering he was a Holmes – was turned suddenly and ruthlessly upside down.

All it took was a single phone call – a phone call starting with the words ‘I’m terribly sorry Mr Holmes but we need you to come and identify a body…’. As it turned out, it was the body of the once beautiful, vibrant and fun-loving woman who had been his mother.

Mycroft remembers pressing the end call button without looking down, staring out into the downpour as his lightning-fast brain – usually such an advantage – goes through all the possible ways in which his mother might have met her end. When he’d finally summoned up the motivation to stumble blindly to his car there were only two thoughts on his mind:

_Maybe it isn’t her_

And

_What should I tell Sherlock?_

***

He’ll never know how he managed to drive to the hospital without crashing the car – he is usually such a careful driver, but on that day he ran three red lights. When he finally got there he took two wrong turns before he reached the morgue and then found himself unable to pass through the doors. For a long moment he’d had the ridiculous notion that as long as he didn’t go through those doors then she’d still be as she was when he’d left for University the week before – proud, quietly affectionate and _alive._

 _Stupid._ It was a stupid thought and in the end Mycroft squared his shoulders, pushed back the hair that was almost long enough now to fall into his eyes, straightened the inexpensive but nonetheless tasteful suit he was wearing and pushed open the swinging doors, striding into the morgue as if he owned it. When he saw the body on the metal table, covered in a white sheet, he stopped dead.

The police are there – two detectives who are trying to be discrete and failing – as is an elderly morgue attendant. Mycroft remembers giving them all only a cursory glance – one of the detectives is cheating on his wife, the other was up with the kids the night before and just wants to go home. The morgue attendant ate curry and rice for lunch and is dreading going home to an empty house, his wife dead for at least three years, his children grown up and long gone. The one thing – the _only_ thing – that Mycroft cares about is the body on the table, lying there on the cold metal surrounded by strangers.

He doesn’t hear the words spoken by the attendant – only remembers being supremely grateful that he is the one to lift the sheet clear to bare the face of the corpse and not Mycroft. His hands are shaking. He knows from the first glimpse of flyaway platinum blonde hair that it is the body of the woman who has loved and cherished him for as long as he can remember. As the rest of her face is uncovered he is left in no doubt. She was so proud of her new hairdo – had waxed lyrical about it when he’d come home from University the weekend before. She’d said she felt younger, more free. She had talked about surprising their father with it – he had been away on business at the time.

He remembers that his hand shook violently when he reached out to brush a curl of hair away from her pale, bloodless face.  A curl that has the faintest hue of red. He remembers thinking that she wouldn’t have wanted to be gawped at by strangers like this. An unremarkable end to a remarkable woman. He remembers that his face was wet with tears he would normally have held in check as he asked the question that would haunt him for years to come.

“How did she die?”

He remembers turning to face the detectives, who look at each other uncertainly before the one who is cheating on his wife nods an affirmative to the other. Mycroft remembers holding his breath as he waits for the answer – remembers thinking, _please let it be a heart attack or brain clot. Something quick if not painless._ For the first time in his life his brain is unable to read the answer, unable to get past the thought that his mother never had the chance to surprise his father – he isn’t due back for another week.

“My name is Detective Wright and I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr Holmes. I regret to inform you that your mother was murdered at her home in South London this afternoon…”

Mycroft remembers that he had paused then, this detective who had three children that were running him and his wife of seven years ragged, as if to give him time to digest this news. He needn’t have bothered – Mycroft has never gotten over his mother’s death even after a decade to get used to a world without her. Two seconds was nowhere near enough to accept the fact that his mother was not only dead, but that she had been murdered. She hadn’t died of natural causes – had, most likely, died slowly and painfully, with enough time to be scared before she died. Mycroft remembers that was what had bothered him the most at the time – that his mother had been frightened and that she had died alone.

But there’s something else – Mycroft remembers looking up at the detective when the silence had gone on for slightly longer than is necessary for a polite pause. A horrible thought occurred to him and he remembers taking a step forwards, eyes flitting around the room for a small, painfully thin figure that should have been in the room as well.

“Sherlock-”

“Your younger brother? He’s fine, Mr Holmes – he’s still at school actually, we phoned ahead and asked them to keep him there until we could contact you. No, it’s your father actually, he-”

Mycroft remembers staring numbly at the detective, his brain finally deducing what his heart cannot accept. He remembers shaking his head, an involuntary action borne of pure self-defence, remembers thinking _please, no more. My heart can’t take any more._ But he says nothing and the detective continues, his face a mixture of disgust at the deed and sympathy for the two boys caught up in it.

“He’s confessed to the crime. He has admitted that he’s the one who entered the house, threatened Violet Holmes with a gun that he’d acquired on a business trip to America, before shooting her repeatedly. Mr Holmes, I am truly, truly sorry to inform you that your father has been arrested under suspicion of murder.”

 

***

Mycroft is 18 and has just started at the University of Oxford, reading law. Sherlock is 11 and has just started Secondary School – much to his disgust, he cannot simply skip that part of his education and join Mycroft who is studying much more interesting and _important_ things.

They are now, for all intents and purposes, orphans. Mycroft remembers pulling up to his old Secondary School and College, gazing at the battered but functional building whilst gripping the steering-wheel as hard as he can. For the first time in his life, he has no idea what to do. He has always known how to deal with Sherlock – his father, with a brain as quick and intelligent as his sons, simply ignored them both half the time and taught them about science and philosophy the other half. His mother, although kind and caring, never really _understood_ the remarkable creatures’ intellect had made her sons. But Mycroft has always been there for his brother – has held him through ever nightmare, commiserated with him over every jealous classmate, defended him from every bully and tried his best to answer every question.

Now he has to go into that school and inform his brother that their mother is dead, that their father is most likely the one who shot her body so full of bullets and from such a close range that Mycroft had thrown up when he had insisted on seeing the extent of the damage. He doesn’t want to – doesn’t want to turn his brother’s world upside down like his has been, doesn’t want to answer the inevitable question – _why?_ Because Mycroft has no idea why their father - an admittedly aloof and outwardly cold individual,  but who had nonetheless loved their mother above all things – had murdered his wife, the love of his life, in such a vicious and bloody manner.

He remembers forcing himself out of the car – a two year old Toyota Yaris that he had chosen for himself before he left for University – and striding through the school doors, ruthlessly forcing back the memories of the many other times he had passed through them. Memories of a happier, more carefree time – his schooldays had been in no way perfect, but were nevertheless a reminder of a time before metal tables, lifeless eyes and platinum blonde curls stained with blood.

He remembers entering the room where Sherlock is sitting reading a copy of 1984, one of Mycroft’s favourites and the book he had given Sherlock for his birthday with the promise he would explain all the parts he couldn’t understand. He remembers schooling his expression into neutrality and thinking _don’t let Sherlock see it from your face, he deserves better than to find out that his mother has been murdered from an unconscious twitch. You owe it to him to be the strong one._ The headmaster is sitting at the teacher’s desk, quietly marking coursework whilst he tries to forget that this is the third night in a row he has been late home from work and that he had to have the family pet put down less than a week ago.

“Mycroft! _Finally!_ I was beginning to think all that weight you’ve put on at University had slowed you down to such an extent that-”

Sherlock had leapt up from his seat and stumbled towards Mycroft, dragging his schoolbag behind him in his haste to get away, but he must have seen something in Mycroft’s face that gave him pause before he stumbled to a halt, his rambunctious stride faltering.

“What-”

Mycroft knows his face is completely blank – possibly this is what has given him away, he is usually so pleased to see his younger brother despite the circumstances – there is no way that Sherlock can _know._ But Sherlock _does_ see that something is terribly, terribly wrong with his stalwart older brother, usually the one with all the answers, the one who _never_ tells him that he’s wrong or embarrassing or strange.

Mycroft remembers exchanging pleasantries with the headmaster – remembers thinking how strange it is to be treated like an adult when he was a student here until a few months ago. Remembers leading Sherlock out of the school and into the car, answering his questions with nothing but silence until it becomes clear he is only making him more distressed.

“-please just tell me what’s wrong, My. Say something. _Anything._ I can’t read you, I can’t _deduce,_ I can’t-”

Mycroft remembers turning silently and pulling Sherlock into an awkward embrace, burying his head in Sherlock’s flyaway curls – such a similar consistency to their mother’s that he almost weeps – and telling him. For a long time Sherlock is silent, not moving, not speaking – Mycroft remembers pulling away to check he’s still _breathing –_ an irrational fear but a profound one all the same.

And then the tears come. Sherlock screams through them, telling Mycroft that he is _wrong_ , that Daddy is in America and Mummy is at home. He beats at Mycroft with his fists and Mycroft lets him, knows he is letting out his grief in the only way he knows how. It is an impossible situation and Mycroft can think of nothing better to do than to rub Sherlock awkwardly on the back whilst fighting fiercely to prevent tears of his own which are threatening to fall. Because this isn’t about him any more – isn’t about his own pain and loss – this is about Sherlock and setting an example to him, this is about looking out for his younger brother, shielding him from what he can and protecting him from what he cannot.

And when the inevitable _why_ occurs Mycroft remembers brushing away Sherlock’s tears, grasping one thin – _painfully_ thin – shoulder and telling him fiercely:

“Because he believed that caring was not an advantage.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Daddy loved Mummy, Sherlock, as utterly and totally as he was capable. If he killed her – and they haven’t proven it yet-”

“He _confessed_ Mycroft-”

“ _If_ he killed her, then it was because the disadvantage of loving her overcame what he felt for her and nothing more. Remember that, Sherlock – never let yourself forget the love that bound them together.”

He remembers his brother staring at him, green eyes swimming with unshed tears, his intelligent brain struggling to come to terms with the only truth Mycroft can give him. 

“But if he killed her _because_ he loved her…”

Mycroft can see the gears turning in Sherlock’s head, his brother coping with his grief by trying to work out the _why_ , pulling the puzzle apart until he got the right answer. Another legacy from their father – one Mycroft knew even then would haunt them both for the rest of their lives. He sees Sherlock trying to grasp the concept of loving someone but hurting them, _killing_ them because, or despite of, that love and thinks _my God, in a few years this boy will be as remarkable as his mother._

“Exactly. People think that desperation or hatred are what motivate people to do terrible things – but never forget, Sherlock that it is _love_ , not hate, that drove Daddy to murder.”

Mycroft remembers almost crumbling then, running one shaking hand through Sherlock’s hair before pulling away from the school, thinking numbly that he can’t take them home – it’s now a crime scene – before finishing so quietly he is not sure Sherlock even heard him.

“Love is a much more vicious motivator.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this is my first attempt at writing fanfiction :) Any and all comments would be gratefully received! XD
> 
> If there's anything you feel I should have included or could have done better, please don't hesitate to say so! :D


	2. Iceman

_Present_

Mycroft is jerked out of his reminiscing by a sharp, yet polite, knock on the door of his study. He is now 28 years old, never completed the law degree that he was initially so proud of and is facing a turning point in not only his career but quite possibly his life. The decision that he is about to make will have far-reaching consequences, not only for himself but also for the 21-year-old he still considers to be under his protection.

Mycroft sighed and rubbed a hand over his face – a nervous habit he could indulge whilst he was alone - and stared down at the official-looking document in front of him. At the same time his eyes are inevitably drawn to the ring on his right hand, the plain band as dear and familiar to him as if it had always been there. Part of a set of two, his mother’s wedding ring was just another memento of a past Mycroft would soon be unable to acknowledge – if he signed the piece of paper in front of him. Mycroft reached out and took another gulp of brandy from the decanter to his right – yet another indulgence he allowed himself in private – and finally glanced up at the door.

“Come in.” He finally said, his voice low but firm, the cultured tones resounding through the silent room.

The man who entered was unfamiliar to him, but he would have been a poor agent – and he wasn’t – to miss the gun concealed beneath his bespoke jacket and the contained violence in his eyes. Mycroft stood to shake his hand, tilting his head slightly to one side as he contemplated what this decision would mean for one last time.

“It’s an honour, Mr Holmes. Your reputation precedes you – I know many people who have a great amount of respect for your…work. I understand that you wish to leave that part of your life behind you – a peculiar decision if I may say so. You are well respected within the service-”

“Let us skip past the part where you try to convince me I am making a mistake, shall we? Right from the start of this…endeavour, I have been fully aware of the consequences.” Mycroft cut in, picking up a fountain pen and tapping it against his left hand, giving the impression of being lost in thought.

Mycroft had been a member of the SIS for the better part of a decade now and during that time had successfully completed more missions than agents twice his age and with twice his experience. He’d been shot three times, stabbed twice and, on one memorable occasion, set on fire. All of this had helped him reached one conclusion – he disliked _legwork_. It wasn’t his near-perfect record that had attracted the attention of some very powerful, very dangerous people – it was the unique way in which many of his missions were solved. Although his powers of deduction were what had first gotten him a job with the Secret Service, it was only recently he had been evaluated for bigger and better things than fieldwork.

Mycroft Holmes had finally been noticed. Within two weeks of his last mission – a nasty situation in Lebanon, where Mycroft had managed to get the information his superiors had required by correctly deducing the passcode to the safe in half a minute – Mycroft had been contacted. Here was his chance to move out of fieldwork and into a realm of endless possibility – a realm where _he_ would be the one giving the orders.

At any other time, Mycroft wouldn’t have hesitated, but-

“I trust that my stipulations regarding my brother have been taken into consideration?”

Mycroft tapped the pen against the paper, eyes sweeping over the agent before him and automatically gathering data that could be useful to him. 23 – no – 24 years old, excellent service record so far, unmarried with two dogs and a fondness for expensive liquor. Doesn’t have a drinking problem yet but within the next ten years he will have. Mycroft allows himself a small flash of wry sympathy before shutting down the emotion – in the line of work he had come from and the line of work he was about to enter, it would be unacceptable to allow his _feelings_ to affect his judgement.

“Your brother is to be left alone, Mr Holmes. You have assured us that you can…contain him. If he can do what you can do – and you haven’t confirmed or denied that – then he will need to be monitored. If intervention becomes necessary-”

“It won’t.”

Mycroft ensured that his tone brooked no argument. When he had begun down this path nearly ten years ago he’d had no idea that the powers of observation and deduction that both himself and Sherlock possessed would become so vital. His superiors had eventually noticed that Mycroft could see things that other people could not – they weren’t _completely_ incompetent – and that had also put Sherlock on their radar.

“If my brother needs to be ‘monitored’ then _I_ shall be the one responsible for doing so – I highly doubt anyone else will be able to keep track of him for longer than a week.” Mycroft continued, raking his eyes scathingly over the agent before signing his name on the paper with a flourish.

“Now if there’s nothing else…?”

Mycroft handed the contract over – a contract which officially didn’t exist. Soon Mycroft wouldn’t officially exist either. He knew that this will place him in a dangerous position – it will be laughably easy for him to disappear and never be found. No one would look for him. Mycroft doesn’t miss the annoyance in the eyes of the agent as he takes the paper and rudely leaves Mycroft’s presence without another word and allows himself a small amount of satisfaction. The thrill of adrenaline that he usually only gets when he’s crouched in the shadows holding a gun washes over him and he smiles to himself.

 _So I will simply make myself too important to get rid of. I will_ become _the British Government if I have to._

Because it is partly his fault that Sherlock has drawn the attention of the most powerful men in Britain and his job, as it always has been, is first and foremost to protect him. Even if Sherlock wasn’t interested in being protected. Mycroft smiles fondly as he remembers the rude, abrasive eleven-year-old that had come into his care ten years ago. It had been because of Sherlock that he had first taken a job with the SIS, an action that had set off the landslide of events to come.

***

_Ten Years Previously_

“I don’t _want_ to go to school, Mycroft! My experiment with the frogs can’t possibly be left longer than a few hours or the results will be utterly useless!”

Mycroft sighed and ran a hand through his hair – still too long, he hasn’t had the chance to get it cut yet. Come to think of it, Sherlock’s hair is getting a bit long as well – he’d have to book him an appointment. Pulling out the small, leather-bound notebook he used to record anything Sherlock-related he wrote down _Sherlock haircut_ before fixing his brother with a deliberately long-serving expression he knew would annoy him.

“You are going to school, Sherlock, and that is the end of it. I’ll be there to pick you up at half past four on the dot. Be late and I’ll leave you there.”

This resulted in Sherlock practically _screeching_ with indignation as Mycroft half-dragged him into his car. Mycroft had known Sherlock wouldn’t take going back to school well, but he didn’t have a choice. Violet Holmes had been dead for just over a year. The Holmes family, although not very large, was incredibly nosy and Mycroft had heard all their opinions on what was best for Sherlock. He should be with a _proper_ family, they said, around people who had the time to raise him _properly._ Mycroft was well and truly fed up with the word _proper._

After all, who were they to tell him he wasn’t suitable to raise his own brother? None of them could possibly understand Sherlock and his incredible brain the same way Mycroft did. If he allowed them to take Sherlock away he would wither under their care, no matter how good their intentions might be. No. It had been down to Mycroft to assume responsibility for Sherlock whilst ignoring their pointed comments about Sherlock’s weight, the fact he hadn’t resumed school and was clearly distraught at the funeral.

Mycroft hadn’t spoken with any of them since he’d said goodbye to his mother one last time at the gravestone, trying to hold himself together as Sherlock had wept uncontrollably. There had been so much to do since then – the most unpleasant of which was the reading of Violet Holmes’ will which, unsurprisingly, had left most of her wealth to her husband. The Holmes family was established middle-class, most of their children attending decent private schools and Russell Group Universities with most of them going on to respectable jobs in science, law or medicine.

Mycroft had taken one look at the state of their finances and quit University. With most of Violet Holmes’ considerable nest egg going to her husband there was precious little left for her children. Mycroft assumed she had never foreseen a future where her husband would be awaiting a murder trial and therefore would be unwilling to provide any funds to his children. Mycroft had made subtle enquiries through their mothers’ lawyer – he had been unable to bring himself to face their father directly – and had discovered, unsurprisingly, that Siger Holmes was using the money he had inherited from the wife he’d murdered to pay his legal team.

Mycroft had been furious, but as the prosecution was keen to send his father down for as much as they possibly could it was in their favour to allow him to take the money – it provided them with a perfect motive for the murder. Mycroft didn’t bother to tell them that his father was a genius and wealthy enough in his own right – they would never believe him if he told them the truth. The burden of intelligence – of seeing _everything, all the time,_ had become too much for Siger Holmes to bear and he’d snapped. As stupid as most of the rest of the rest of the world was, Mycroft would have thought it obvious their father was insane – he’d admitted to murder and then turned around and pled innocent.

“ _Myyycroooffftt!”_ Sherlock whined as they pulled up to the gates of the school, his voice grating on Mycroft’s already frayed nerves.

“Please, Sherlock. Don’t do this to me today. You know that today-”

“Today is the day of the verdict. _His_ verdict. I want to be there, My, I want-”

“ _I want_ doesn’t get, Sherlock, we’ve been through this.” Mycroft sighed, giving Sherlock a gentle nudge to try and get him out of the passenger seat.

“But I _hate_ school Mycroft, _hate it._ It’sso _boring_ and _pointless_ and everyone is so _stupid._ ” Sherlock’s voice shook slightly and Mycroft focused his full attention on Sherlock for the first time.

“I know Sherlock,” Mycroft said after observing his brother for a long moment – Sherlock was being victimised by several classmates because he never got a single question wrong, one of the teachers, probably his Chemistry teacher as that was Sherlock’s favourite subject, was picking on him because Sherlock had correctly challenged him during class.

“Then _why-_ ”

“Because you’re a better person than that Sherlock - we Holmes’s have always stood apart and you are no different. When you’re older you’ll carve a path for yourself and find your niche in the world, but until then you have to keep your head down and make nice with your intellectual inferiors, no matter how painful it may be.”

Mycroft felt a small amount of his own frustration leak into his voice and Sherlock turned to face him, green eyes wide as he realised his brother wasn’t as infallible as he appeared to be at first glance.

“ _You_ don’t like it either. To pretend to be normal and _boring_ when it’s so obvious that you aren’t, to hide what you can do so that you aren’t left alone. I haven’t deduced anyone in _weeks_ but they _still don’t like me.”_

Mycroft felt his heart stutter at those words, words he himself had said to their father almost eight years ago. It was a gift and a curse, this talent of theirs. It allowed them to see what others couldn’t and the potential for his gift to really make a difference was not lost on Mycroft – he’d always been unfashionably patriotic. But it also alienated almost everyone they came into contact with, to such an extent that Mycroft wondered if he’d ever meet anyone who just accepted it as part of him. He allowed none of these doubts to show on his face as he ruffled Sherlock’s hair in an awkward attempt at affection.

“There will come a time when you – _we_ – won’t have to hide what we can do. When you meet people who accept you – _all of you_ – for who you are. I think that one day the name ‘Sherlock Holmes’ will mean a great deal. Now get out of this car or I shall burn your frog experiment Sherlock – down to the last amphibian.”  

***

“Does the defendant have any final words before we announce the verdict?”

Mycroft shifted in his seat and leant forwards slightly – damn but these benches were uncomfortable – eager for this whole debacle to be over. His father was lounging indolently in his seat, the narrow lines of his face and sharp, high cheekbones reminding Mycroft brutally of Sherlock. Whereas Mycroft had inherited something of their mother’s softness – he suspected when he was older he would have some trouble keeping off the pounds – Sherlock was all Siger, right down to the slightly angular, alien-like eyes.

After some deliberation with his legal team, Siger stood and then looked straight up at the gallery, his eyes fixing on Mycroft’s and holding them in an icy grip. Mycroft felt his whole body go cold as he saw the madness lurking in the depths of those eyes – so well hidden, his father was quite the actor – and was terrified by it. _My God,_ he thought, _is this my future?_

“All lives end. All hearts are broken. I simply did what was necessary to prevent my own destruction – self-defence in advance, you might say.”

Mycroft stared at his father for what felt like hours but was, in all likelihood, no more than a few seconds before the judge turned to the jury and asked them whether they had agreed on a verdict.

 _Guilty._ The vote was unanimous and unavoidable – their father was jailed for life, for the murder of his wife, Violet Holmes.

***

Mycroft exited from the back of the court, avoiding the no small amount of journalists and reporters that were gathered at the front – the trial had attracted a decent amount of media coverage throughout. That hadn’t made it any easier for Mycroft – faced with the impossible task of raising an eleven-year-old who cut up dead frogs for entertainment and counted the bathtub as an acceptable place to keep his test subjects. Then there was the problem of finance – Sherlock attended a £9000-a-year private school and even with the money Mycroft _had_ been saving towards University, unless something changed drastically he would have to go elsewhere.

That was unacceptable. Sherlock had only just settled in there – in his own way – after the better part of a year. Mycroft couldn’t uproot him and put him into another school, one where the students might be slightly less respectful of Sherlock’s circumstances. Besides, if he pulled Sherlock out the rest of the Holmes _clan_ would most probably have a collective apoplexy and-

“Mr Holmes?”

Mycroft jumped at least two foot into the air and one foot to his left at the voice to his right – apparently he had been so focused on his own thoughts he had allowed one of those infernal journalists to sneak up on him.

“I am not interested in giving you an interview, so if that is what you are after you are wasting your time.” Mycroft spat out through gritted teeth, not hiding the sneer in his voice. Bloody journalists circling like vultures, not caring that it was his _mother_ who had been murdered, that he’d had to watch his _father_ go down for the murder-

The man flashed him a toothy smile and kept pace with Mycroft’s strides, flashing a badge at him as he did so.

“I’m afraid you have me all wrong, Mr Holmes. I’m not with the media – although I do have a proposition for you, one I feel will be mutually beneficial to us both. Your country needs you, Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft stopped dead and raked his eyes over the rather slimy-looking individual before him, eidetic memory storing everything he found to be filed and accessed whenever he needed it.

“You have three children all under ten, one of them recently fell ill but is now recovering. Your wife left you – no, died – shortly after the birth of your third child and so you feel guilty about leaving them alone whilst you work – particularly as you work abroad often and for extended periods of time. You have the official ID of a Detective Inspector but we both know that you don’t work for the police, you don’t have the right bearing or physique for the military – so SIS then. Now, what could Her Majesties Secret Service possibly want from me?”

Mycroft reeled out the deduction without thinking, wanting to either annoy or unnerve the man into leaving him alone. He had to pick up Sherlock in two hours and wanted to be away from this courthouse as soon as possible. The last thing he needed were _real_ journalists to spot him and descend like the plague.

“That was impressive, Mr Holmes. Most impressive. You have a skillset. Mr Holmes, a skillset that could be put to use for your country. You could save lives, make a difference…and _we both know_ that you don’t exactly have any other job offers on the table. Your financial situation is, shall we say, _a bit not good_?”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and considered looking down his nose at the mongrel and turning and leaving with a few well-picked insults. On the other hand…he did need the money. He’d applied to several management positions since he’d quit University but had had no luck. And when he thought over the man’s words – _your country needs you, you could save lives, make a difference –_ it struck something within him he had previously been unaware of. He’d always been patriotic – and if this was a chance to serve his country whilst still keeping Sherlock in school…

“What kind of proposition?”

***

_Five years previously_

“Iceman126224. Come in Iceman. What the _hell_ is going on over there? You were supposed to get in and out without attracting attention so why am I seeing a massive cloud of fucking smoke?”

Mycroft gritted his teeth and hitched his arm higher under Richard’s shoulders, trying to ignore the worryingly large amount of blood that was seeping from his partner’s side.

“This is Iceman126224. They knew we were coming and when it looked like we would succeed in extracting the files they blew the whole computer unit sky high. _No one_ will be getting at those plans now, sir – not unless they can time travel.”

Mycroft sensed rather than saw the gunman before he fired and flattened them both against the wall, right hand clenching his standard-issue Sig Sauer P229, whilst Richard sagged against his left side. The microphone dropped from his grasp and onto the floor – Mycroft left it. Their superiors were no good to them now.

“Hang on Richard, we are almost clear. Just give me-”

He paused to shoot at the gunman who was attempting to sneak around to the left to get a clearer shot – his mistake. Mycroft only needed half a clear shot to ensure he didn’t put another bullet into either of them.

He dragged Richard upright and mostly dragged him along at his side, breathing hard from his efforts as he rounded the corner which should lead them out of the building and into the streets of Mumbai. They would be able to lose their pursuers there – they weren’t affiliated with the Indian Government and could hope for no assistance from the Indian authorities. But then, neither could they. Technically they shouldn’t even be here – if they were kidnapped then the British Government would deny all knowledge of them ever being here. It had been an unstable mission right from the start – not for the first time Mycroft found himself thinking that if _he_ had been in charge he would have done a better job.

But as he half stumbled around the corner, Richard mostly a dead weight at his side, he was confronted by three men who were blocking the doorway, all of whom had guns. The sound of pursuit from behind grew louder and Mycroft looked desperately for  way out – a door to his left might provide an escape route but there was no way he’d make it in time with Richard slowing him down. They’d both be shot dead before they made it two feet.

Mycroft held up his free hand – the one with the gun in it – in surrender, mind whirling as he tried to catalogue any evidence that could link him back to the SIS. His accent of course – although he spoke eight different languages, six fluently and had long since learned how to disguise his dialect if necessary. His gun was standard issue for the secret service although that didn’t mean anything – but in his current state Richard might-

“Leave me.”

Mycroft rasped out a laugh as the three gunmen began to warily draw closer, looking slightly more relaxed now that they had their quarry seemingly trapped.

“I’m serious, Mycroft. Shoot me in the back of the head – you owe me that at least – and get your arse out of here.”

Mycroft shook his head minutely and gripped the gun tighter in a suddenly shaking hand.

“Richard, I cannot.” He murmured finally, wondering if this was the end. If they were captured here they would most likely be tortured and then killed – or maybe just killed depending on how angry they were at the loss of their priceless files – missile plans stolen from England that they were attempting  to sell on the black market for millions. He wondered what would become of Sherlock, left alone in England, never told about how or where his brother was killed.

“Yes, you _can._ You don’t have a choice. We took this job because we can make the decisions that others can’t – now bloody man up and _do it!”_

Mycroft stared down at his partner of three years, for once completely lost for words. His heart kept telling him _no. I can’t do it, he’s my friend – my only friend. I won’t abandon him here._ Whilst his brain said _yes. Here is your chance – get away from here and get back home. For Sherlock._ That was what persuaded him in the end. He had to return to Sherlock – he’d promised. After the last time he’d been shot, bleeding out into the desert sands of Iraq in an intelligence-gathering mission gone wrong, he’d promised himself _no more._ No more taking stupid risks to prove himself, no more deliberately accepting the dangerous missions in the hopes of being noticed and promoted out of the field. And yet here he was – facing death yet again in his quest to prove to his superiors that he was better than the average field agent. _Stupid._ He was so stupid.

“Mycroft! Don’t choose this moment to suddenly grow a backbone, please. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity. Now, give me that gun and-”

“No. No. I’ll-I’ll do it. I owe you that at least.” Mycroft kept one eye on the approaching gunmen – who were grinning manically and gesturing with their guns in a way that made Mycroft think they had no intention to bring them in alive. He would have to be quick. They would start shooting the second he moved and he couldn’t afford to take a serious hit – he needed to get to their safe-house in the city, which was several miles through crowded streets.

He gripped the gun firmly and with intent, looking Richard in the eyes before shutting down his emotions. His codename was apt indeed, for at that moment Mycroft could almost feel the ice spreading through him, cutting him off from his treacherous heart, which was breaking at the idea of killing his friend and allowing him to do what was necessary.

“Goodbye, Richard.” Mycroft murmured, running his eyes over his friend’s pale, pain-stricken features to commit them to memory.

And then he fired a single bullet into the back of his head.

***

_Present. (Sherlock 21, Mycroft 28)_

“Really, Sherlock? _Drugs?_ Whatever would Mummy think of you?”

Mycroft addressed his brother in a scathing tone, allowing the full force of his disappointment to show so that perhaps Sherlock would miss the sheer terror. Sherlock was crouched in one corner of his room at Oxford University, most of the available space in the room taken up by chemistry equipment and books on criminology. His eyes were overly-bright and Mycroft deduced he’d been under the influence for some time now, the rush beginning to fade.

“Piss off, Mycroft.”

Mycroft heaved a sigh and held the umbrella Sherlock had given him three years ago for his birthday in a firm grip, fighting back the urge to grab Sherlock by the collar and _shake him_ until he agreed to come off the drugs.

“Now now, brother-dear, there is no need to be rude. I am merely paying you a social visit. It was not my intention to interrupt your…leisure activities.” Mycroft said scathingly, sharp eyes darting around the room in the hopes of finding the offending substances. Briefly he wondered how his brother had gained access to such things – Mycroft _did_ now have him under surveillance, after all – and who had sold them to him. Whoever they were, Mycroft would find them and he would _burn_ them.

“New job suits you well, Mycroft, you’ve put on weight. Not getting shot at constantly must be doing wonders for your diet.” Sherlock snapped back nastily, curling up into a tighter ball and trying to pretend Mycroft didn’t exist.

“Besides, it’s an _experiment_ Mycroft. I can stop whenever I like.”

Mycroft had practically raised his brother, knew all his tells and ways of trying to hide the fact he was lying. Sherlock was displaying all of them.

 _Oh Sherlock, what a mess I’ve made._ Mycroft thought, watching as Sherlock stood on slightly unsteady legs and picked up a skull – good lord, where had to gotten hold of _that –_ before glaring daggers at his brother.

“You can leave now, Mycroft, I have important things to be getting on with. You know there was a murder at the One Stop down the road last night? I’ve been trying to work out who the murderer is and I think so much better when you aren’t in the same city.”

Mycroft realised with a jolt that he’d been dismissed, Sherlock now muttering aloud to the skull perched in his lap. He felt a sudden and terrible rush of fear as he stared at his brother, wondering if this is how it had started with Siger – he had gotten more and more antisocial in the months leading up to the murder, becoming obsessed with obscure and complicated experiments. _No. Don’t go there. Don’t do that to yourself. Don’t look for his madness in Sherlock. It will destroy you, and ruin whatever relationship you have left with Sherlock._

Mycroft looks at his brother – drug-addled, muttering to a skull about murder-weapons and blood-spay patterns, and wonders where he’d gone so wrong. If he wasn’t careful, the drugs would end up doing what even Sherlock’s resentment and being left alone for months on end due to Mycroft’s job had not. The drugs would ruin that beautiful, precious mind that still had so much left to give to the world. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this chapter was longer than expected :) After a while it just kind of wrote itself!
> 
> For those of you who are unfamiliar with the English school system, or live in a part of the country where the system is slightly different, here is a summary of the system I've used for this fic:
> 
> Nursery - children can start from a few months right up until 4 years of age  
> Reception - full-time education starts when a child is 4 years of age  
> Junior School - Year 1 - Year 6. Children start from 5 years of age and leave when they are 10/11  
> Senior School - Year 7 - Year 11. Children start at 11 and finish at 15/16. GCSE's are done in years 9-11.  
> College - also known as Sixth Form. Ages 16-18. A-levels are done during this time.  
> University - 18+
> 
> As always any and all comments are appreciated :)


	3. A Good Man

Mycroft Holmes was perhaps the most powerful man in Britain and was undoubtedly one of the most influential men in the Western world. There was no political scandal, no Act of Parliament, no election or legislation within the last three years that he hadn’t helped to initiate.

And yet none of this helped him even in the slightest when it came to Sherlock.

“Really, Sherlock? _In the Thames? Must_ you find some excuse to be arrested at least twice a week?”

Mycroft sighed, ensuring to sound as put-upon as possible as he leant back in his chair, wondering if he would always have that initial thrill of fear when he answered the phone. There was always a part of him that wondered if today was the day he would get a phone-call, not from the police station, but from the hospital. Asking him to identify a body. And wouldn’t that be ironic – Mycroft was considerably more powerful and respected than his 18-year-old-self had ever been and yet he was no more able to protect the people he cared about.

He had tried everything to get Sherlock off the drugs and into a respectable line of work. As soon as Sherlock had finished University, Mycroft had offered him a job with MI6 – it hadn’t been difficult with Mycroft’s reputation with the SIS – a job he’d felt suited Sherlock down the ground. It had been a position in code-breaking that would also have allowed Sherlock to go into the field – engaging both his brain and his need to be _out there_ actually _doing_ something.

Sherlock had all but spat in Mycroft’s face and told him where he could shove his job offer. Sherlock was 24 years old and yet seemed perpetually stuck in his teens. He rented a decrepit set of rooms on Montague Street, filled his time by working obsessively on obscure experiments and rarely left the flat. When he _did_ leave the flat it was invariably because he intended to acquire more drugs or because he intended to cause trouble. Trouble for Mycroft that was.

This was the seventh time in a month that Mycroft had been called to bail Sherlock out of jail, for a range of offenses including, but not limited to, theft, assaulting a police officer, anti-social behaviour and now illegally swimming in the Thames. It was getting to the point where not even Mycroft’s considerable clout could protect Sherlock from worse than an overnight stay in the lockup.

“It was _important_ Mycroft! There was a murder in the East End last night and I know – I _know_ – that it was the brother. He tried to dispose of the evidence in the Thames but was interrupted so he _buried_ it. I, naturally, deduced where he’d buried it from the mud splattered on his boots and-”

“Sherlock. _Please_ tell me that you haven’t been arrested under suspicion of murder.” Mycroft raised his eyes heavenward, praying to whatever God might be listening.

“Don’t be ridiculous Mycroft, of _course_ I haven’t been arrested for _murder_. Scotland Yard aren’t _that_ incompetent.”

There was a pause, then, “I’ve been arrested for _manslaughter,_ which is utterly ridiculous because the blood-splatter is obviously indicative of-”

“Enough Sherlock. Do not say another word.” Mycroft eyes flicked to his watch – it was 8pm and he’d started work at 5am – and grimaced as he realised he probably wouldn’t be getting any sleep tonight. Again.

“I’m on my way.”

***

“We’re _so_ sorry for the misunderstanding, Mr Holmes. I really have no idea what my _idiotic_ officer was thinking. Sergeant Lestrade is usually a thorough and conscientious individual – one of our best, actually. I’ve even been considering him for promotion.”

Mycroft smiled politely, trying his best to pay attention to the disgruntled Superintendent who had been left to deal with him when in reality he was only just resisting the urge to _strangle_ his brother. At first Mycroft had thought that Sherlock’s…escapades were a good thing – anything that distracted him from what had become almost constant drug-use had seemed like a good thing. But as time went on it had become increasingly clear that Sherlock was running rampart, safe in the knowledge that Mycroft would bail him out if he got into any real trouble. Something would have to change, Mycroft realised, before his colleagues began to take an interest in the brother that Mycroft had insisted he could control – or worse, Sherlock managed to get himself into a situation even Mycroft couldn’t talk him out of.

Sherlock could end up in prison, just like-

 _No. Don’t go there, Mycroft. Don’t even think it. Sherlock is nothing at all like_ him.

“Think nothing of it, Gregson, think nothing of it. We all make mistakes now and then, do we not? Although I _would_ like to have a word with Sergeant Lestrade – I assume he is still on duty?”

Mycroft swing his umbrella slightly, pointedly ignoring Sherlock who was sulking somewhere to his left. Mycroft had taken great pains to cultivate his image over the years – rich, unassuming and non-threatening, nothing more than an amiable man with an umbrella. Of course, nothing could be further from the truth. Mycroft knew eight different ways to kill a man without having to pull a weapon and if it came down to it he was considered to be a decent marksman. Putting all that aside, Mycroft had an expert security detail and if he wanted to have someone…eliminated, then they would be removed and never seen again.

“Ah…yes, Mr Holmes. Greg – I mean Sergeant Lestrade – is still in the station, following some leads on an unrelated case. Er...if I might just say, Mr Holmes, Lestrade _is_ one of our best officers – very dedicated and with two young children as well. Perhaps _I_ could…?”

“No need, Gregson, I will see myself up. Third door on the right, isn’t it? Sherlock, you can either stay here or go home - but so help me if you get yourself arrested again I’ll leave you to rot.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and snorted derisively, clearly undaunted by the prospect. Mycroft could hardly blame him – there was no chance that he would ever leave Sherlock languishing in prison if he could do anything about it. And Sherlock knew it. Mycroft watched him go without so much as a ‘thank you for bailing me out of jail _again_ Mycroft’ and for perhaps the thousandth time wondered when Sherlock had started to resent him so much. It was now well past 9pm and the light had long since faded over London. Mycroft waited several minutes before calling for a car to take Sherlock home. It _was_ November, after all. And God knows what trouble he might get into between here and Montague Street.

Mycroft took the stairs up to the sixth floor – he’d put on weight recently and was endeavouring to lose a few pounds without resorting to yet another bloody diet. Although he certainly didn’t miss running for his life as groups of angry terrorist cells shot at him, he _did_ miss the exercise that his previous occupation had required. There wasn’t much call for running for his life in his current position – thank God – but he hardly had the time to go to the gym. Perhaps he should consider jogging or cycling?

Mycroft had long since committed the building plan of Scotland Yard to memory and had no trouble finding the office that Sergeant Lestrade shared with several other officers. As it was though Lestrade was sitting alone at one of the desks, which was littered with papers and photographs, most likely pertaining to one of the cases he was working on. Mycroft remained outside for a few moments, appreciating the chance to observe without being observed, aware that he would have more of an advantage if he caught the man unawares.

Sergeant Lestrade was clearly exhausted – he kept rubbing his eyes and yawning widely. He was here long after most of his colleagues had gone home – was working on the case when even the Detective Inspector assigned to the case had clocked out for the day. That was indicative of a highly focused and ambitious individual. However the Superintendent had mentioned that he had two young children – and yet he chose to remain here at the office instead of returning home. _Of course,_ Mycroft thought, scanning his eyes over the hunched figure again. _His wife is cheating on him. Probably has from the start – and he knows. Poor sod._ It was a knee-jerk reaction – Mycroft couldn’t honestly say that any of his relationships had even come close to marriage, but he could so easily place himself in Lestrade’s shoes – workaholic, small circle of friends, perhaps stuck in an unhappy marriage for the sake of the children.

“Sergeant Lestrade?” Mycroft spoke up before he could complete his chain of thought – he was here to get the measure of the man who had attempted to throw his brother in prison, not to sympathise with him.

“Wha- Who the hell are you?”

Mycroft Holmes fixed the Sergeant with an icy stare, excusing his rudeness only because he had deliberately placed him in a situation where he was caught off-guard.

“Mycroft Holmes. I believe you are acquainted with my brother-”

“Sherlock bloody Holmes. So you’re the brother of that arrogant prick? Tell him that the next time he interrupts a crime scene I will _personally_ process his arrest myself – contacts in high places be damned.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed fractionally as he contemplated the obviously furious Sergeant – not surprising really considering he’d probably been on the receiving end of Sherlock’s acidic tongue before he’d handed him over. If something wasn’t done about Gregory Lestrade’s resentment there was a high chance he would cause trouble for Sherlock further down the line.

That was simply not acceptable. There were several ways Mycroft could go about managing this situation – that was, after all, what Mycroft did best, _manage_ and _manipulate_. He could, of course, simply have the man fired, however he _did_ have a young family and although Mycroft could hardly be called ‘considerate’ – or anything close to it – he had so far managed to stay away from the realm of ‘needlessly cruel’. He could try and bribe Lestrade with cash incentives to stay away from Sherlock and turn a blind eye to his misdemeanours – Mycroft could deduce from his clothing that Lestrade was meticulous in his appearance despite being on a budget and clearly took pride in his presentation – he could certainly do with the cash. However, in the short time Mycroft had observed the man for he had already formed an opinion of Lestrade as the kind of man who would probably react negatively to any attempt at bribery. That left persuasion by appealing to Lestrade’s caring nature – a side to the man Mycroft had not expected but was evidently clear by looking at his right hand – or intimidation.

“My brother, Sergeant Lestrade, has been somewhat of a loose cannon ever since the death of our mother. As I am sure you can understand, losing his mother at such an early age has had a rather negative effect…”

Mycroft regarded Lestrade carefully, gauging his reaction to Mycroft’s subtle attempt at manipulation. It was…unsuccessful, to say the least. Lestrade snorted and ran a hand through his unruly mop of dark brown hair – already going grey – fixing Mycroft with a sharp look.

“That’s putting it mildly. That bastard has disrupted two crime-scenes with his nonsense and nearly succeeded in contaminating vital evidence today from a third. Whoever raised him clearly didn’t do a very good job – he’s a grown man, not a child, and should have more respect for himself than to get himself arrested and waste police time the way that he does.”

“I raised him.”

Mycroft felt his eyes ice over as he straightened up, suddenly more than just a posh bloke with an umbrella. Who was this man to critique the way in which Sherlock was raised? Did he have any _idea_ , did he have the faintest _inkling_ of what it was like to be like them – mind constantly craving stimulation, entertainment? Did he have any idea what it was like to be alone, eighteen, essentially broke with one parent murdered and the other on trial for the deed? Of course he didn’t and now he had the sheer audacity to criticise the young man that Sherlock had become. It had been a long time since Mycroft had been as angry as he was now and some of this must have shown on his face because Lestrade’s face softened and he raised his hands in a placating gesture.

“Well that can’t have been easy – especially as you don’t look that much older than me. It must have been hard to raise a kid like Sherlock-”

“That is what they all tell me.” Mycroft’s tone is glacial, his eyes as hard as chunks of solid ice.

“What-”

“How hard it must have been for me to raise a ‘kid like Sherlock’. How terribly taxing it must have been to put up with him, how difficult I must have found trying to tame him. Like he's some kind of wild animal, like he’s barely even human. Let me make one thing very clear, Sergeant Lestrade – Sherlock and myself are exactly the same, _exactly._ The only difference is that one day, if the world allows him to be, Sherlock will become a very good man as well as a great one. I, however, am _not_ a good man and never will be – too many rules, you know.”

Mycroft smiled a shark’s grin, for the first time in years letting his anger get the better of him. Other people were always commenting on Sherlock and how _freakish_ he was, how _strange_ how _not normal_. Mycroft had faced years of prejudice against his brother with barely a word – Sherlock could take care of himself, after all, had in fact told Mycroft once that ‘normal was boring’.

“Do you want me to tell you what is going to happen - to you - if you don’t leave my brother alone, Sergeant Lestrade?”

Lestrade was watching Mycroft warily, instincts obviously telling him that the person he had first taken for a rich, lazy, arrogant businessman was instead someone far more deadly.

“I suppose you’ll kill me. Not sure how you intend to get away with threatening a copper _whilst you’re standing right in the middle of Scotland Yard,_ but there we are. I suppose anyone who’s a relation of Sherlock Holmes probably has some lack of self-preservation.”

Mycroft allowed himself to raise one eyebrow in a gesture of surprise. Lestrade, a man he had initially evaluated as being relatively simple and easy to predict had surprised him constantly during this conversation. Mycroft had anticipated that Lestrade would have buckled under pressure – if only due to concern for his family if nothing else – and yet here he was attempting to threaten _him,_ Mycroft Holmes. How amusing. _And interesting. Certainly not boring._ The part of Mycroft’s brain that relished a challenge was delighted at the man’s sheer nerve. Mycroft could look through the entirety of his department and not a single one of his people had the courage to stand up to him like Lestrade had just done. Then again, perhaps the Sergeant simply wasn’t aware of who exactly he was dealing with. Mycroft would have to enlighten him.

“Oh no, Gregory – may I call you Gregory? – nothing as crass as that. No. If you continue to get in my brother’s way, if you so much as lay a hand on him – you will vanish. You will be wiped from the records of Scotland Yard and let me promise you that none of your colleagues will be brave enough to ask where you’ve gone. Your family will be left, alone, never knowing what happened to you. If you remain a threat to my brother, I will _burn_ you. Do we understand one another, Mr Lestrade?”

Mycroft found to his horror that he was shaking. How – _how_ – had he allowed one insignificant policeman to influence him like this? Without looking to see what effect his words had had on the Sergeant – a toss-up between sheer rage and paralyzing fear – Mycroft turned on his heel, intending at the very least to make a dignified (yet dramatic) exit.

“Do you think this is helping him? Sherlock, I mean?”

The words were quiet and softly-spoken, yet the emotion in them made Mycroft pause in the process of exiting the room. Because Gregory Lestrade wasn’t angry or frightened – he was _sympathetic._ And, good Lord, was that _pity_ in his tone? Slowly, Mycroft turned around, the umbrella grasped in one slightly shaking hand.

“What?”

The word cut the silence between them like a knife, Mycroft’s tone uninviting of further conversation, his eyes glacial.

“I said, do you think this is helping Sherlock? Constantly bailing him out of trouble, covering for his every mistake, smoothing things over every time he slips up? You honestly think this is the best way of dealing with things? Bribing the police to look the other way and threatening them if they don’t?”

There was such… _compassion_ in his voice that Mycroft found himself completely lost for words. Why – _why_ – was this man, this ordinary, boring man, trying to – what, _comfort_ him? Give him _advice_? Mycroft negotiated with terrorists and world leaders daily and yet this lowly police officer from London thought he wasn’t handling his own brother correctly?

“What else is there?”

Mycroft knew – hoped – that his tone wasn’t as confused to Lestrade as it sounded to himself – to the rest of the world he rarely, if ever, appeared to show emotion. And yet the fact that _he_ could hear the sound of his own weakness in his voice was unacceptable. He had negotiated with suicide bombers as they stood ready to blow the surrounding area – and Mycroft – sky-high, and his nerves hadn’t wavered. He had looked down the barrel of a gun pointed straight between his eyes without flinching. He had looked his partner in the eyes as he had shot him through the back of the head and had felt nothing but ice. And yet this seemingly normal man could make him _feel_ , in a way that he hadn’t felt in years.

“Your brother, Mr Holmes, is a right mess. He’s doing drugs – don’t try and deny it, I know an addict when I see one – he has a list of charges a mile long and they’re getting worse. If he keeps going the way that he is he _will_ go to jail and there isn’t anything you or I will be able to do about it. My advice would be to stop bailing him out all the time – let him accept some responsibility for his actions. If you keep picking up all the slack for him he’s _never_ going to learn, he’ll just get worse and worse until he really will be responsible for a crime scene – intentionally or not. The reason I had him arrested for manslaughter was in the hope that it would frighten him onto the straight and narrow. Hell, he should apply for a job at the Yard – with a brain like his and with his…enthusiasm; I bet he’d make a great-”

“Consultant.”

Mycroft was barely aware he was even speaking until the word came out of his mouth, the thought still half-formed in his mind. Lestrade seemed temporarily lost for words as the idea became more and more solid in Mycroft’s mind. It was perfect really – ingenious – the only surprising thing about it was that he hadn’t thought of it before.

“The Yard is allowed to call in private consultants if the case warrants outside help, is it not? The reason why Sherlock acts the way he does is largely down to boredom – his mind needs constant stimulation or he becomes…difficult. Sherlock could never hold down a full-time position at the Met – he has some _issues_ with authority and his attention span is rather short. But if you could use him as a consultant for some of your cases – the cases that no one else can solve – then everyone is happy. Sherlock gets the puzzle his mind craves, you get a better solve-record and I no longer have to, ah, bail my brother out of prison.”

Lestrade simply stared at him. Without speaking. Mycroft was starting to worry that he’d managed to induce some kind of fit in the Sergeant before he opened his mouth to speak, closed it again and then preceded to shout. Loudly.

“Are you out of your mind?! Just a few minutes ago you were threatening to make me disappear and now you want me to – what, _help_ you? Allow a drug-addict to assist on cases – which I’m not allowed to do, by the way, I’m only a Sergeant-”

“You won’t be.”

Lestrade ceased shouting to gape at Mycroft, face turning a rather alarming shade of purple. Mycroft wondered if it was possible to induce an apoplexy simply through shock alone. It was worth looking into – he made a mental note to memorise several journal articles on the subject.

“What the _hell_ do you-”

“I mean that if you agree to watch over my brother, I will fast-track your promotion – and don’t look at me like that, this isn’t a bribe. You are already marked down for greater things, Mr Lestrade – I will merely ensure you do not end up waiting overly long.”

Lestrade, although looking slightly less purple, was nonetheless clearly overwhelmed by Mycroft’s proposition and reached backwards with his arm, flailing it around curiously before grabbing hold of the chair he had initially been sitting in and leaning on it heavily. Mycroft observed him coolly, calculating what he would have to do to get Lestrade to agree to his proposition. He could always go to the Superintendent – or beyond him if he had to – but that would leave Sherlock with no contact within the force, no one he could go to with his theories – and no one he could call if things were to go wrong. Mycroft had realised after the last overdose that Sherlock would _literally_ rather die than turn to Mycroft for help.  

“He has to be clean.”

For a moment Mycroft couldn’t believe what he was hearing and imagined he looked rather foolish, staring blankly at Lestrade as the Sergeant stared determinedly at him.

“I mean it. If he’s going to work with me – Criminology degree or not – he _will not_ be under the influence of either alcohol or drugs.”

Mycroft found himself looking again at the ordinary-looking man before him, seeing nothing to change his initial estimation of the man – a fool who was being cheated on by his wife, knew it, and yet couldn’t bring himself to leave her – but he knew there was so much more. Perhaps he was merely tired and overworked – or maybe there were some things that not even Mycroft Holmes could deduce at first glance.

“I will ensure it, Mr Lestrade.”

“Greg. You may as well call me by my first name – God knows we’ll probably be seeing enough of each other before this is over. Oh, and Mycroft?”

“Yes?”

Mycroft was still blinking in indignation – it was, after all, considerably rude to address a man by his first name without asking first – when he answered, unable to supply a more articulate response.

“I agree with what you said before. About Sherlock. I think that one day, if we’re very, very lucky, he _will_ be a good man.”

 Mycroft sniffed and nodded his head in acknowledgement – of _course_ he was right, he usually was. It was laughable that anyone – especially a mere policeman, unremarkable in practically every way – could presume to know better.

“But you were also wrong. About yourself. I think you already are a good man – and I think that one day, if the rest of us are very, very lucky, you’ll realise it too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this is the end of this fic - but not this series! :) I plan to write more fics to go along with this one, perhaps one from Sherlock's POV, or Lestrade's - or maybe catch up with the BBC!canon. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has left kudos on this fic - as always any comments, negative as well as positive, are greatly appreciated.
> 
> I hoped you enjoyed reading this fic as much as I enjoyed writing it :)


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